


The Homes We Burn

by Myrime



Category: Tales of Symphonia, Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, Heroes, Home, Hope, hero or monster, making the best of what you've got, who could ever tell the difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8595691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: People say power turned him mad. But they are wrong. In fact, he thinks he has been mad all along.
Or: It is family that keeps them going, even while they believe their world is lost.





	

People say power turned him mad. Rising from a dwarf-raised nobody to an angel’s son and the Chosen’s very own body guard – and lover, as it is whispered behind tightly shut curtains. Of course, no one speaks about these matters where there is even the slightest chance of being overheard. The stories of his deeds travel as fast as the ashes of yet another village burned, another band of rebels laid to a fitful rest.

Lloyd knows what they are saying anyway, reads their misgivings right off their faces. He knows, too, that they are wrong. In fact, he thinks he has been mad all along, even back when he was naught but a naïve fool, thinking he could – or had any right to – save the world.

He has certainly grown since then, and he has certainly grown madder, too. He gives them that much. These people who walk in fear of him, who see him as a bringer of death not change, an oppressor not a builder. Sometimes it is hard to resent them for it. Mostly during the nights, when he does not recognize himself, when he tries and fails to understand how he could have risen and fallen so far, so fast.

It is not only his fault, however, or so he tries to defend himself. Who could have gone through what he did and emerge unscathed? Even sane? The very story is insane.

He had fallen into this maelstrom headfirst without the first idea of how to brace himself against its blows. He had picked up blades without knowing how easily flesh can be cut or how spilt blood would taste on his lips. He had loved easily without expecting loss, without realizing that there would not always be a second chance. He had had wings rip open his back, leaving inch-deep scars and the deep-rooted fear of both leaving the shaking ground behind and staying chained to its unwavering foundations. He had jumped through cracks in the very fabric of the universe, allowing him to wander the fertile soil of two worlds, only to destroy lives in both of them aspiring to reunite what had once been one, to reassemble the pieces and create something better, only to throw them into just another hell.

Colette had made it all look so easy, marching on, offering helping hands, smiling against all odds. She seems like the only truly pure person alive to him. But it is almost like, for her to stay that way, he had to drink up all the corruption threatening to drown her and make it his.

It is embedded in his skin, colouring his vision in only black and crimson, in targets and weaknesses and graveyards. It flows through his veins, mingling naturally with the blood he inherited from his oh so fallible father. Maybe it is a family thing, taking up the world laid at their feet and turning it into something tainted, something bound to fail, no matter how fast they force their legs to run and their hands to mould anew.

Theirs is a lost creation. That, however, does not mean they can let it go.

This knowledge never leaves him, but follows him like the smell of the stakes he personally built, follows him like the dried blood under his finger nails and his father’s lessons in his ears on where to strike to bring down an enemy quickly – or slowly, painfully if he has questions that need answering. It follows him into his nightmares, waking and asleep.

It even follows him home, to the hidden sanctuary they had built as removed from the clashing worlds as they could, with promises of safety and family and a place where they could be themselves, not the holy, frightening figures they are painted as, nor the hardened, desperate and failing ones they appear to be.

They always plan to all meet up there, not once they feel their mission is done, but any time they can, any time they need a respite, a minute to breathe, to gain new strength and lend helping hands to rebuild and fortify each other’s walls.

Colette started a garden in the backyard, but for one called the Chosen of _Regeneration_ she is remarkably bad at keeping things alive. But Presea had taken over for her and, despite having spent most of her still young life more than half-dead, turned it into an oasis of life, consisting of more colours than Lloyd knew existed. It is supposed to remind them of the beauty around them but, frankly, he does not like it very much. It is too cheerful, too honest, too – alive.

There are hundreds of books inside. Of course there are. For all the time Rayne spends travelling, digging through ancient and more recent ruins – most of those of their own making – she is probably to one spending the most time here at this home of theirs, dragging back whole crates full of new findings, locking herself into her room to make new plans before storming right out again, an empty bag over her shoulder and a feverish gleam in her eyes, seeking to unearth history. All so she does not have to ponder what people say about them, what they will say in the centuries to come.

Mithos’ name lived on as that of a hero despite him being everything but, only a spoiled, lonely boy longing for the comforting embrace of family.

But there are no illusions about _them_. Oh, there had been songs and statues and empty words of gratitude, but it has all fallen to dust already.

Regal had insisted on a large kitchen and Genis on windows wide enough to capture every single ray of sunlight, so he would never be in danger of being swallowed by darkness. Sheena has enough space to run, forests and mountains and rivers wild and loud enough to drown out even her roaring mind. For Zelos there is a magnificent desk, equipped with the finest paper and ink, so he can ‘stay in touch with his many admirers’. The only letters he ever sends, though, are epistles to his sister, page after page, a never ending apology from one who had never learnt that he is worth forgiveness too.

All that Lloyd had wanted is a second bed in his room, for the father he saw leave but could never really let go, hoping against hope that this one goodbye is not forever, but just another trial he has to muddle through.

It is always quiet here. Back when their journey had started they had been young, rambunctious. Nights were filled with stories and arguments over whose turn it was to cook dinner and who would take first watch. Days were made shorter by jokes and endless planning and bickering. Which way to go, what supplies they needed, and was Zelos’ wish to rekindle some long forgotten love with what’s-her-name really a legitimate reason for a two-day delay in their travels?

They still argue, of course, only they are rarely loud now. It is inquiries about nightmares and glaring exchanges of ‘ _I’ll only eat something if you’ll stop sharpening that sword of yours for one bloody minute_ ’.

They love each other. More, maybe, than ever, now that they barely manage to love themselves.

“I’m home,” Lloyd calls out upon gently closing the door behind him. There are not many gentle things left in his life. But this, coming home, will always be one of them.

He receives no immediate answer, but there is low clanking audible from the kitchen and Presea’s humming in the garden drifts in through the open living room window, in front of which Rayne’s shockingly messy hair can be seen over the rim of some dusty tome.

It is so easy here, to forget the chaotic raging of the world in his back, so easy to forget that he is not the excitable, sometimes too slow boy anymore who strained his arms carrying two swords because he thought it would somehow make him stronger, less easily cast aside.

He does not need this second sword anymore. He does not need any sword at all to strike fear into people’s hearts. Only his name, even whispered from half a world away.

“Did you bring broccoli?” Regal asks from the kitchen.

Once, Lloyd would have grimaced at the very thought of some vegetable he does not like, and jumped at the chance to pretend to have _forgotten_ it. Now, though, he is unbothered by the fact that he was asked to bring it almost four months ago, when he and Regal were last home at the same time, and gets the offending food out of his bag while taking long strides into the kitchen where he places it next to the sink.

He briefly touches Regal’s shoulder in greeting and thanks. Despite the ingredients, he has missed home-cooked meals. Left-overs half-warmed in the still smouldering ruins of the latest rebel hide-out simply do not taste the same.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

Lloyd nods and briefly waves at Presea who is handing in freshly cut herbs through the window. Then he makes his way to the stairs and up his to his room to at least pretend that he is going to unpack, despite him not wanting to touch his every day tools here, in their safe place.

Halfway up, Colette appears and all but floats down to meet him, a smile on her face that is more honest than those she feeds the public, although he is sure she is not aware of that. After all those years and adventures, she still cannot lie. But keeping things unsaid, oh, she is a master at that.

“Lloyd,” she breathes a kiss against his cheek. “You’re home.”

“Yes,” he says and wonders whether any of them ever really is.

Once he would have lingered on the feeling of her lips against his skin. Once she would have blushed. Now they merely tuck away the realness of it deep inside their hearts where they hope no one will be able to spoil it.

“I’ve heard about Palmacosta,” her tone suggests it is a question, although he cannot say whether she enquires about his reasons or his wellbeing. He knows, however, that he cannot do this now, cannot listen to her hopes and plans and wishful misunderstanding of what is going on around them. Inside them.

“I’m tired,” Lloyd says and keeps walking up the stairs, hoping she will leave him alone. But, of course, she has never been good at that.

“Me too,” Colette answers lightly and, for some reason, he thinks they are not talking about homecoming and travel-weariness anymore, but about truths they have long ago realized but simply cannot acknowledge.

“Then let’s talk later.” He fervently wishes this _later_ will be when he is already on the road again, out to cleanse another part of the world of one corruption, only to leave it to be infested with something worse.

“Rayne’s laving tonight, so Regal’s making her favourite.” Which would probably be left untouched by the Professor, who is now throwing herself even more single-mindedly into her chosen quests. Lloyd understands that. Rest is only another word for unwanted opportunities to think – about other matters than those at hand. Deeper ones. More painful ones.

“Well,” he turns towards his room, the first to the right, so his way down is not so far in case he needs to get out quickly. Which happens every other night, when the walls get too suffocating around him and he desperately needs to breathe. It also allows him to search for the single bright spot up in the sky that is supposedly Derris Kharlan and – oh, he has never felt farther and closer to his father than this. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Colette, showing herself utterly unimpressed by his obvious desire to be alone, turns around and follows after him. Lloyd ignores her as best as he can but she has always been too bright for that, too demanding of attention. He had loved her for it, once. Now he hates the fact that he can never close his eyes without seeing her.

“We need to talk,” she insists, and he suppresses a sigh.

“About what?” he barely resists snapping at her but, despite everything, he does not want to be mean, does not want to be the person people say he is. No matter that it is too late for that.

“This will destroy you.” They are in his room now and Colette lounges on his father’s bed as if she has a right to it. The mere sight invokes fire to run through his veins and puts the smell of ashes right back into his nose, but he does not move other than taking his bag off his shoulder and throwing it carelessly to the ground.

There are so many things wrong with her statement. _This_ could be an endless variety of things, beginning with an age-old promise to protect her and ending with the fact that they are in far too deep by now, without the slightest idea of how to untangle themselves from this mess they created.

Also, of course, it is utterly debatable that they are not already destroyed. For they sure as hell are not whole anymore, not a single one of them.

“And?” He shrugs as if to say he does not care, but he is sure the tension in the line of his shoulders betrays him.

Colette, however, does not comment on it, does not argue the fact. “I never wanted this to happen,” she sounds earnest. So much so that he has to swallow a laugh. He is afraid it would come out too hysterical for him to go back to pretending everything is all right.

“I don’t think any of us did.”

“But they had a choice,” she says, stubborn as ever. “You didn’t.”

If he is honest with himself, he does not see her point. None of them really had a chance. Rayne being chosen to guide Colette and Genis being thrown out of the village alongside Lloyd. Sheena having her orders and a home she had already failed to protect once before. Presea being a shell of her former self, a shadow of what she could have been, without a hope to reclaim what is lost. Kratos and Regal trying to atone for sins they cannot forget. And Zelos being a Chosen all of his own.

None of them had really been given a choice whether or not to follow after Colette and aid her in her mission. The thing that matters is that they would not have chosen to stay out of it anyway.

“You were my friend,” Colette all but whispers. “If I hadn’t been, you could have stayed home and –”

And what? Lived happily ever after? Continued to waste his life away.

Lloyd snorts, bitterly amused. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Colette never is. Never on purpose, anyway. Which means that she is serious. “What do you think would have happened had I stayed behind?”

Something that looks suspiciously like guilt flickers over her face, but he will not have any of that, so he keeps talking before she has a chance to follow her strangely morbid trail of thought. “You might be dead, for one.” It is a weak attempt at joking, especially because his lips refuse to curl up, staying right how they are, thin and bitten bloody.

Colette nods but does not answer, as if that is what she would have suggested, too. It is then that Lloyd realized that this is not about him, not at all, but about her. Her fears, her guilt, her stupidly fucked-up life.

He almost wishes he could be angry at her, but he is too tired for that. And the fighting is supposed to stay outside these walls, out in the world he sometimes wants to leave to rot because, deep down, he knows he will not be able to save it.

“How about we stop this nonsense right now?” he asks, sounding rather unconvinced himself. “If you had died, we would all be either dead by now, or exist as emotionless puppets in Mithos’ Age of Lifeless Beings. Do you think that would be better?”

Better than constant bloodshed and curses on strangers’ lips? Better than endless, futile journeys, seeking an unreachable peace? Better than only nightmares and graveyards to visit, both in and outside his mind?

Sometimes, he quietly admits to himself, he certainly thinks so.

“But we’re not changing anything,” Colette exclaims and she _is_ frustrated, much like all of them, only that she allows herself to show it when they do not.

There are, naturally, ways to tell when one of them is at a truly low point. Presea’s garden is a result of pure desperation to create something good for a change. Regal’s never ending supply of pies and travel food is a clear indicator of how much he needs to keep his hands buy and his mind occupied with mundane things. Rayne’s thirst for knowledge does not even has to be mentioned.

“We simply exchanged one hell for another.”

A lifetime ago Lloyd would have offered her comfort, empty words, awkward hugs. Now he just nods. “Yes,” no hesitation audible. They are beyond that. “But this is _our_ hell.”

This is what he tells himself every time he goes out there to face another battle, another obstacle appearing in their way. It never helps.

But Colette is different. She still believes in things, she can still be swayed, if only one goes right about it. She is not yet hard enough to shatter upon impact.

Lloyd is not the right person for that anymore. He has neither the patience nor the strength left to carry her burdens, too. Deep inside, he wishes he could at least regret that, but they have come too far for such falsehoods.

“I’ll see if I can help Presea in the garden,” he says, just wanting to be gone, to keep her from answering, lest she catches him even more off-guard. What is done is done. There is no reason to think about what-ifs or even about backing out. They have seen many impossible things in their lives, but that does not mean they will be getting out of this.

Colette lets him go, quietly if not easily, fixing him with a somewhat longing look, equal parts disappointed and pleading.

They both know that Presea would never let him touch her precious plants, not with his hands, which only know how to deal death. But she is a good person to be around when he does not want to talk but needs someone to listen. And Presea is very good at that. At taking in his heartbeats and reshaping the stumbling into something steadier. She catches his breath and fills it with kindness that stretches his lungs gently instead of ripping and crushing it. She creates life out there and he cannot help but hope that, one day, some of it will return to him.

He leaves Colette without a word and takes the stairs quickly, slowing when he passes Rayne to nod at her, solemnly as only adults do. She had prophesized for years that he would never reach the stage where she could respect him as an equal, that young had he been, that foolish. But he had reached it, and faster, too, than any of them would have guessed. Or hoped. Of course, she still holds lectures, still insists on being involved in every mayor plan they devise, but it is not due to a lack of trust in her former students anymore. It is simple worry, a – mostly – futile way to keep herself calm.

It takes Lloyd only a couple more steps and then he is in the garden, taking in the green, the colours, the sun that shines less harshly here.

Presea recognizes the state he is in – he is so often exhausted in body and mind after coming home – and motions him to sit out of the way, offering neither smile nor frown. He is grateful for it, just as he is grateful that no one disturbs them until Regal calls them for dinner.

Life could be so good, Lloyd muses, surrounded by flowers and quiet and friends. Life could be more than what they have, less fighting, less struggle. He thinks he could easily spend the remainder of his days here, in this safe place, with these people who understand him because they live through the same darkness, the same bottomless well of doubt and desperation.

Yes, life could be good. But not for them. Not now. Not while their duty, their fate is not yet fulfilled. Later, if there ever will be a later, they might come here to stay, to be more than what they are now. He would like that. Maybe he has not yet forgotten how to dream.

Regal serves not only Rayne’s favourites but something small for all of them, his silent confession that he has noticed the tension in the air. The Professor, not so subtle herself, has actually dragged herself away from the living room floor and her books, glaring at Lloyd and Colette as if they are back in her classroom. It has about the same effect as it did back then.

Dinner is delicious. Of course. Every bite says _home_ , just as there is _home_ in every word and touch and glance, here, far away from monsters and fires and necessary evils. They do not want to argue, neither Lloyd nor Colette or any of the others, but they understand each other better than anyone else and, sometimes, that is harder than fighting through things alone.

Yes, maybe they will actually make it through this, Lloyd muses as his gaze wanders over the people around him, over the empty spaces where the rest of his wayward family will soon be again. They have done so many things together, beaten impossible odds. Once they thought they were invincible. They know now that they are not. Only, maybe, a little. As a family.

For Lloyd, that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
